


Paint

by theplatinthehat



Series: a perfect cadence, dearheart [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, and it can be about anyone you like, but we rarely stop to talk about our favourites, consider it the seasons of the relationship, i won't stop you, if anyone wants pictures of birds in the snow please message me on tumblr, maybe don't think of it as a literal year though, not all loves are permament, or you can think of it however you like, this isn't autobiographical, we often talk about our greatest loves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28637010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplatinthehat/pseuds/theplatinthehat
Summary: Maybe we'd marry and we'd work it out fine/In some other time, some other time
Series: a perfect cadence, dearheart [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955737
Kudos: 1





	Paint

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a little piece inspired by the song 'Paint' by The Paper Kites. It's a gorgeous track - well worth a listen, as is the rest of the EP. As usual, the lyrics in the summary come from the song.
> 
> So, it's been a while. I haven't flexed my creative muscles for ages due to... reasons. This is honestly the first thing I've written in months. It came out so much better than expected.

At the end of the lane there is a little cottage. It has white walls, a vegetable garden and a brook babbles behind the shed.

We saw it first in the spring, when the flowers had come into bloom and the bushes were bursting with birdsong. Hand-in-hand, we sighed as one – smiled. We knew it at once. This was home.

And home it was.

We moved in that week, tripping over boxes for a good fortnight before we finally decided to sort ourselves out. I still remember that first day – I was searching high and low for a pan to make dinner, but ended up cross-legged on the floor looking through old photo albums. You joined me on the rug by the fire, and we laughed and laughed at old memories and tragic hair styles. There were names and faces, of friends long-lost or long-gone. We put the albums away and ordered food in – making new memories in our own place, protected from the rest of the world.

You were the calm in the storm. A safe harbour where I could rest.

Behind the cottage there is a forest. It has trees of all sizes, leaves of all shapes, and mysteries uncounted in its depths.

We ventured in first during summer, when the sun was high in the sky and the wind couldn’t stop playing with my hair. Arm-in-arm, we wandered through the woods – stumbled. We were never explorers.

But explore we did.

We found a pool, deep and blue, where we swam and splashed to our heart’s content – giggling like little children. After, we lay on the grass, letting our skin dry in the warmth of the midday sun. I would have fallen asleep right there had you not nudged me awake with the promise of food and kisses. We sat together, beneath the shade of an old oak tree, making toasts to people we’ve never met and places we’ve never been. I read a book out loud to you, words were never your strong suit, whilst you tenderly braided my hair.

Your fingers were as soft as feather down. A gentle touch that I never knew I needed.

In the cottage there is a kitchen. This is a place of magic – where ingredients are brought together to make food for the body and the soul.

We started baking in the autumn, when the season spun the leaves into gold and the frost began to creep across the lawn. Chest-to-chest, we danced by the oven – swayed. But things were changing.

And change they did.

The first time I noticed it, I was making bread. The dough was by the fire, rising, and I turned to the corner where you always stood - waiting. But you weren’t there. I wandered through our home, calling your name. But you weren’t there. Before I could panic, I heard the key in the lock and you opened the door. You answered my questions with nothing but a kiss and pushed past me to go upstairs. Had it just been once, I might have put it from my mind, but your absences became long and frequent. So, I asked you, _begged_ you, to tell me what was wrong – what I had done? But you shook your head and left – slamming the door behind you.

Your absence tore a piece of me away. I still don’t feel whole.

Outside the cottage, there is a garden. There’s a metal bird feeder – I can’t remember if it was here when we arrived, or if we bought it ourselves. I keep it filled every day – a welcome home for weary birds of every kind; finch, sparrow, woodpecker. 

It is now winter, and the first snow has fallen crisp and white across the countryside – haw frost freezing every fence and field. Beak-to-beak, a pair of blackbirds nuzzle each other – an almost kiss. It makes me think of you.

I always think of you.

I watch the birds without seeing them, letting my mind wander down lanes less travelled. I think about us, and what we could have been. What if we’d never come here? What if we hadn’t grown apart? What if you’d ask me to marry you? Perhaps we could have made it work.

I laugh, curling my fingers tight around the hot mug.

Me and you, married?

No.

My ocean heart and your city blood were never made to be country souls. We are two forces, pulled in opposite directions. We came together for a time, but that time could never have been long. I understand that now – and although it still hurts, I’m learning to love again. Love this life, love the birds, love myself and all my mistakes.

So, I will pack up my boxes, and return to my rugged coastline – the siren-call of waves and gulls begging me to return. The whale song still sings to me.

I’ll write your name on the wall before I paint it over. I’ll cover it slow but I know I’ll take you with me. Wherever I go, I’ll carry you in my heart.

To the ends of the earth and back again, to this little cottage at the end of the lane.


End file.
